Posted by in Poems on Aug 11, 2013

He waits in the desert for the healer,

wings wrapped tight as a tout’s mac,


heels driving, toeclaws gouging, deep.

Stones into bread, miracle, power:


to and fro on the hot, disregarded earth,

the serpent floods his venom sacs:


aware that venom turns to medicine

in the healer’s hands.


Hopeful of success or failure,

he waits in the desert for the healer.